they burn
by Melika Elena
Summary: "The only thing he and Gale ever had in common was that they both loved girls on fire, the country's most well-known, worst-kept secret, but only Rory knows that they were both blondes." abstract, 2-part drabbles. rory/prim gale/madge
1. Rory

**Flicker**

He thinks of death in the hiss of a smoking match, its flame extinguished, a means to an end, fires are things of use not of beauty, although they can be beautiful.

The questions that hover around him in the quiet, the thoughts that linger to make sure he can never forget them, are vast like the forests of 12, they consume his thoughts, each question leads a different path, something uncharted that will never come to pass, a reality that—

There's the rub. Riddle me this, Rory Hawthorne, which is worse, the reality of seeing buttercup yellow hair flicker like a flame, blue eyes melting, flower wilting, or merely imagining it, like a hazy dream, the particulars would make you scream so you can't—or don't—focus on those, but her glittering eyes soak him in every time and she reaches for him, he does not know death any other way death is not a soft natural thing but man-made and unwavering like steel merciless in what it crushes and protects.

He started to play the piano after he found sheet music amongst Gale's few possessions he left behind in a faded box underneath the raggedy bed in their shack in District 12. He pretends not to notice the soft, looping handwriting in the margins and the gentle lines soothe him and give him what he needs to teach himself how to play; when he goes to District 2 on occasion, he notices the grand piano in Gale's foyer but only lets his fingers caress the keys, the white and the black are too stark and polished, the beauty outshines the use, he prefers faded eggshell and tarnished grey, things that are used and loved.

Must you be alone, his mother asks, her mouth pinched, the lines around her mouth were started by laughter and deepened with pain, and he thinks _must_ to be a rather strong word, forceful, decisive, like Gale, and he has never been anything like that, he loved soft things, yes, the only thing he and Gale ever had in common was that they both loved girls on fire, the country's most well-known, worst-kept secret, but only Rory knows that they were both blondes.

He only lives when he dreams and in the quiet he sees her unravel her braid and sit by the fire with him. She ages with him, he traces her curved silhouette like a treble clef, trembling, he is not alone when he is with her but he is not whole either, and _must _is not a choice it is the path he got lost in the forest consumed the others, all he wanted to do was make it to the lake and soak her in it, a cleansing, a baptism, a time for new things they never had.

One day he is older and the path in the forest becomes clearer, the branches dip low as he passes, a wreath of needles, they feel like cotton and at the edge he sees her fire, it envelopes her like a veil, he reaches for her the hands clasp and intertwined, the flames flicker up his arms and envelope him

And he smiles.


	2. Gale

**Glint**

He thinks of love in flashes of lightening, in glints of gold and light in the darkness, the glory while it lasts, the desolation when it fades, the inky black that prevails time and time again. He has long given up that enlightenment staying, long conceded to the darkness; he was always used to the shadows anyway, the way they linger, the way he lets things get away from him, each time, every time.

He has no use for questions, for wondering, for things that might have been; if he did that he would have died long ago, there is only what was and what is; he keeps his sights on the dark, the quiet, it's when he thinks of gold and crimson does he break.

Do you think of her most, Gale Hawthorne, when you glance at the pristine piano, untouched, unloved, in your home; in the dusting of snow over blue wildflowers;, he thinks she died like one would if struck by lightening, in an instant, instead of fading in a slow burn; she used to look at you so fondly, her look softer than a caress.

In the quiet he hears the piano play softly, the whisper of her laughter, _estinto_, he sees her in nature, in the mountains she would have loved, the complexity of the ridges; he does not see her in buildings, of man-made straight structures, she curved like a spring, the curl of her hair in the shape of the clouds; the rumble of the storms that gives way to the flash of light, outline his frayed edges and illuminate what he keeps hidden. She keeps him company in that place between dreaming and sleeping. He loves her most in the moments before he opens his eyes in the morning, he can still pretend she will be waiting for him, there.

He's always had an affinity for lost causes, things deemed unconquerable, climbs the topless mountain, navigates the endless forests, hunts the unattainable. Maybe that's what drew him to her despite the murmurs of the district _nothing good can come from a seam boy loving a town girl _of Everdeen's and Mellark's and Abernathy's and Donner's he adds _of Hawthorne's and Undersee's_ with a trembling heart, and he can still feel that hope he had in his heart at eighteen whenever he saw that glint of gold and the way her smile would shift like sunlight whenever she saw him.

The dark earth shakes, the sky rumbles, when she is near, the shadows slip away like whispers, he is alight; to resist her is to deny the truth—

He sees her glint of gold and is struck.


End file.
